


And Live Without Shame

by softcharles (tohzier)



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Angst, Atonement - Freeform, Erik has Issues, Erik is Crushing Harder than a 12-year Old Girl, Graphic Depictions of War, I am not sorry, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Poor Charles, So much angst, World War II, atonement au, everything is wrong, raven has made a huge mistake, sebastian shaw is gross, this is a fix-it i hope
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-07-29 20:38:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7698589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tohzier/pseuds/softcharles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An Atonement AU: If You Have Ever Seen/Read Atonement You Will Know Why This Is Going To Hurt™<br/>(if you haven't, good luck)<br/><i> note: chapters posted out of order so check back again to make sure you didn't miss anything!!</i><br/>now featuring raven pov's!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello all! ｡◕‿ ◕｡ it's rlly exciting to finally be posting my first fic in this fandom! this is literally just atonement but with the characters changed and alternating narratives (from erik and charles of course) and ~~maybe possibly an alternate less soul crushing ending~~ ANYWAY i have co-written this with my good friend who will be writing the sections from erik's perspective, and i the ones from charles ^-^ this fic is currently incomplete and will be updated whenever i possibly can (and at this point in time only contains sections i have completed from charles's pov, any from erik will be posted when i get them) please leave any thoughts/concerns/questions/suggestions you would like in the comments, we'd love to hear them! thank u so much for taking the time to read, i hope this doesn't bring u too much pain ❣
> 
> ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧
> 
> just an fyi as far as trigger warnings go: if you're not familiar w/ the story, there is an element of plot regarding the rape of an underage child. this will not be depicted explicitly but will be referred to as an event that happened. please let us know if there are any sections you want us to place a specific warning around, but as far as the references go, they will be as tame as possible. this element cannot be removed because it is a pivotal plot point of the original atonement story (which is a wonderful but terribly sad book, written by Ian McEwen, and was adapted into a movie) but we would not have included it if it wasn't (meaning, simply, this isn't just here; the thing that happens, while terrible, is important and serves a point, so we aren't putting you through this for no reason)  
> the beginning of this story is in 1935, right before WWII, and will continue through the war. there will be sections depicting war, including the battle of dunkirk. these sections are intended to be realistic, which means there will likely be some violent and upsetting content. we will place specific warnings around the incredibly violent sections, but if war/violence is highly upsetting to you, please proceed with caution. don't sacrifice your mental health for a fanfic, please, its not worth it. we don't want to overwhelm you, but we want to be honest about the horrors of war and not downplay the suffering real people have experienced.  
> there will be occasional use of foul language, references of tobacco and alcohol use, injury, and sexual content.

_England 1935_   
  
  
  
  It wasn't the weather that had Charles in such a foul mood. It couldn't be accounted to the drying grass on the fields leading to the Xavier home, making the drive in dull and uninviting. It was seldom the perspiration he gathered simply jogging from the overgrown backyard gardens into the house for the vase. It wasn't the lazy breeze or the incessant bugs that had all accumulated into what, in his mind, was the worst headache of his life.  It could, most easily, be attributed to his seeming impossibility to avoid impediments on his mother's simple task: to prepare the guest room. Charles's older brother, Hank, was due that evening for a visit, and was bringing his work associate, Sebastian Shaw. Shaw was staying the week as well, so an extra room needed to be readied. Charles had cleaned the linens, set the bed, dusted, swept, and arranged all the furniture in its most accessible layout in the spare room. He had set fresh towels on an empty chest of drawers, and made sure there wasn't a single smudge on the mirror atop the vanity. All this would have taken him a mere hour or so, after Edie, one of their cleaning ladies, had laundered the sheets the day before. But apparently, Charles could not proceed in any of his pursuits without a barrage of requests from family and staff. His mother had prompted him to fill their best vase with fresh-cut flowers, to be placed on the night stand in the guest room, every single time he had traversed the hall in front of the main room, where Sharon Xavier was holed up for the day, a glass of scotch in one hand and what looked to be a new story of Raven's in the other.   
  His little sister, Raven, had taken a rather feverish liking to writing stories in her recent years. Now thirteen, she had managed to complete an near anthology of stories, all of varying caliber, and had now embarked on the completion of a play, to be performed for their brother Hank after the reunion dinner. Charles was excited to see it, really, but Raven had managed to catch him right at the exact moment he was lifting and moving the very large bed into the center of the guest room. As a result of his surprise he nearly dropped a bedpost on his foot, which earned Raven an altogether unkind response to the announcement of her play. Charles had to stop on his run for cleaning supplies to make a heartfelt apology to his sister and explain that he really was happy for her and was very excited to see the play indeed.  
  Between all that and lunch, Charles had managed to turn what was intended to be a morning task into a half-the-day task, and was in quite the rush to put the morning behind him once he finally finished his meal. He still had so much to do in preparation for that evening: he had to iron his suit, shine his shoes, attempt to tidy his room; he had promised Raven assistance in setting the "stage" for her play in the library, and besides, he was really beginning to crave a cigarette-  
  "Charles, don't forget the flowers for Mr. Shaw's room." Sharon cut through his thoughts as she entered the dining room, late for lunch as usual. It took Charles all the strength he had not to throw his head back with a dramatic sigh; instead he simply mumbled his "yes ma'am"s and stood to take his plate to the kitchens. After delivering his used cookware to the staff, he made his way to the parlor and retrieved their one-of-a-kind artisan vase. It was, perhaps, one of the most valuable items the Xavier family owned, not just monetarily, but in sentimentality as well. The latter was for the most part lost on the rest of the family, or, at the very least, the adults. The story behind the vase was a bit jumbled to Charles; it had been given to his great-uncle for some sort of selfless act in war, but Charles couldn't remember what it was he had done. All he knew was that the vase was so special it had resided in a museum before it was gifted to their great-uncle, and then, once the man had died, been passed on to Sharon, for being the only member of the Xavier family to attend his funeral. (Many of the others were deceased, or lived too far to feasibly make the journey, but in Charles's opinion, Sharon had only bothered to make the effort because she believed she would gain some sort of monetary prize. One could imagine her expression when she found nothing to her name but a vase.) Still, after it had made the journey home, the war vase became a center point of decoration for their parlor, often filled with fresh flowers from their gardens whenever a guest arrived.  
  Seldom were there visits from outsiders, especially after Charles had gone for his term at Cambridge and Hank had gone to London for work. Sharon had grown nearly agoraphobic in her years, and Raven was so invested in her fantasies that she almost never called for a friend from school to visit during her summer. Charles felt a small pang of guilt for leaving Raven alone in the house with their mother for so long; he had returned from school a good month into Raven's summer break, and Raven had no one there to entertain her but their eccentric mother and her frequent migraines. Still, Sharon did well enough indulging Raven with her attention, and always read her stories upon prompting, feigning enjoyment if the pleasure wasn't real.   
  But Charles wasn't the only one to return home recently; their cousins, the Quincy's, had arrived just the night before, the three children coming without their parents. It seemed his mother's sister had begun an affair and the Quincy elders were getting a divorce. The children, fifteen year old Emma, and her younger twins Sean and Alex, were not privy to this information, and had been sent to stay with the Xavier's under the pretense of an extended family summer visit. Emma had seemed keen enough on what was really going on; in fact, Charles had his suspicions that it was Emma who had discovered the affair and moved to have the boys sent away to avoid emotional harm. But that wasn't the official story.    
  On the moment of their arrival, Raven had instantly preyed upon the cousins to be her unwitting cast, and proceeded to make any and all attempts at rehearsing, which was constantly thwarted by the twin's short attention spans and Emma's undermining attitude. After lunch Raven had called them up to the old nursery for another run-through, and presently the theatre troupe of actors thundered past Charles in the hall as he emerged from the parlor with the vase.  
  "Hey, watch your step." He joked as Raven nearly crashed into him, arms full of scripts in pursuit of her thunderous cousins and their frozen following shadow.  
  "Sorry." She muttered, dodging to get past him and calling after her charges in a harried voice. Charles chuckled to himself and decided to leave the vase in the guest room, rather than venture outside with it, as it had just been nearly destroyed, and there was no telling when the twins would come crashing through his pathway again.  
  And so Charles found himself running to the gardens, determined to make short of his task so he could get on with his day. He gathered flowers to match the color scheme of the guest room, trying not to snap the stems too short in his haste.   
  It was peaceful out in the gardens, and if Charles could have it his way, he would escape there for the rest of the day and while away his time where no soul could bother him. One of his mother’s manufactured migraines had managed to very realistically manifest itself in his mind, and he knew if he did not get in a smoke soon  he would be much more irritable than usual. But, he did miss his brother, and was delighted at the idea of enjoying time with all of his siblings united together again. So after he had satisfied himself with his selection of wildflowers, he set off at a sprint again back to the house.  
  Once he had arrived at the guest room, he grabbed the vase and flowers and set about arranging them on the bedside table. Only after a few moments of shifting the stalks around did he realize he had forgotten the final piece of his endeavor: the vase held no water.  
  Resisting the urge to drop his head smack onto the nightstand, Charles gave a small groan and sat on the bed. He was still exerted from his run to and from the gardens, and was already perspiring and disheveled. He set about removing his shoes; his feet felt like they were about to set ablaze.  
  Once he had removed his heated shoes and socks, he picked them up, along with the vase, and headed down to the front door. He placed his shoes in the area of the entryway where family and guests regularly placed discarded footwear, and where a few pairs of what were undoubtedly the children's shoes currently resided. Once he straightened, mentally preparing himself for a short but exhausting walk out to the fountain, his eyes alighted on a figure perched on the stairs, visible through the open front door. A figure whom he immediately recognized to be the last person he wanted to interrupt his final task of the already egregious morning.  
  Erik Lehnssher, son of their best cleaning lady Edie, and current groundskeeper of the Xavier manor, was sat on the front steps, freshly rolled cigarette in his hands as he pressed the wrappings down to complete it.   
  Charles stopped dead in his tracks. The last thing he wanted to do that day was endure another patronizing conversation with Erik, whose only pastime it seemed was attempting to make increasingly unbearable small-talk with Charles. But, even if he were to travel out the back, Erik would still see him at the fountain from this position and no doubt approach with his ridiculously subtle smirk Charles hated so much plastered all over his face. Charles couldn't linger here in the doorway forever, and he knew if he set aside the vase to be filled later on he would forget until it was too late. So there was nothing to be done but face his quandary head on. He hefted the vase under one arm and reached up to adjust his hair, which had become sweat-slick and clung to his forehead. After sufficiently improving his appearance, he took a deep breath and stepped forward to address his fate.   
  He paused when he came level with Erik, standing next to where the other man was sat and looking down at him, lost for a way of greeting. Erik slowly turned to squint up at him; Charles was directly in line with the sun. Erik gave a small smile in acknowledgement, the newly finished cigarette still clutched in his fingers. The sight of it gave Charles inspiration as to how he would traverse what was sure to be a grueling conversation.  
  "Would you give me one of your Bolshevik roll-ups?" He asked, trying to remain casual, but still noting the slight edge in his own voice. Erik simply extended a hand with his cigarette in it, and Charles plucked it from his fingers hastily. He was craving a smoke much more than he had initially thought: after all, this was to be his first of the day, and as embarrassing as it was to admit, he seldom went so long without them.   
  Erik stood and pulled a lighter from his pocket as Charles raised the cigarette to his lips. With both of them using their hands as wind guards, Erik successfully lit it and replaced the lighter to his shirt pocket. Charles took a long, satisfying drag, and exhaled with a small, relieved smile. Cigarette in one hand and vase in the other, he set off down the path to their Trident-themed fountain, Erik following silently.  
  After a few quiet, and honestly tense moments, it appeared as though Erik wasn't going to speak, and Charles's chest was beginning to tighten under the weight of their interaction.   
  "Beautiful day." He offered up meekly, and regretted the words as soon as they had left him. The weather, yes, a rather rallying topic amongst life-long friends. He felt he had acted impetuously, and of course this would reflect negatively to Erik, whose every move was pre-planned years in advance.   
  Erik did not grace him with a response, at least not on the subject. After a few moments he did offer conversation points of his own.   
  "How is your book?"  
  "Boring." Charles decided after another drag.  
  "We mustn't say so."  
  "I wish they would get on with it."  
  "It gets better."  
   A hush fell over them yet again, as Charles could think of no response. Of course, infuriatingly always-ahead-of-him-Erik had read Charles's latest endeavor. He should have suspected that Erik's curiosity as to what Charles would bother to spend his time reading was to simply make sure he was following Erik's golden fucking footsteps.   
  Charles took a couple more drags, attempting to quell his irritation as they neared the fountain.  
  "Hank's coming today, did you know?"  
  "I heard a rumor. That's marvelous."  
  "He's bringing a friend, this man Sebastian Shaw."  
  "The chocolate millionaire. Oh no! And you're giving him flowers." He joked, catching sight of the vase on Charles's other side. He rolled his eyes in response, annoyed that Erik would even feign jealousy, when he should know Charles would never voluntarily bring anyone else flowers-  
  No. Charles always had to stop his mind when it wandered down this dangerous path. Who was he to think he could be seen bringing another man a vase of celebratory flowers? As if he had reason to care a childhood fellow who, class-speaking, he was never intended to mix with anyway, had gone away for any amount of time, and actually be ecstatic upon his return? And it wasn't as if Erik wasn't going away now...  
   
  No it couldn't be the heat, or any other family grievances, that prompted Charles onto this subject, but the years of denial and suppression weighed so heavily on his already frayed nerves that it didn't quite surprise Charles that this was the moment they snapped.  
  "The Old Man says you're going to be a doctor."  
  The question, not posed as such, hung in the air as both stopped walking, feet from the fountain.  
  "I'm thinking about it." Erik said after a beat from somewhere behind Charles.  
  "You must love the student life." Charles took his final drag and tossed the butt into the fountain. Erik probably sensed his tension, but elected not to comment.  
  "I know you never liked that sort of thing, Cee. But how else do you become a doctor?"  
  There it was again. Cee. The dreaded nickname everyone on the Xavier grounds had adopted for him. Everyone, who said it with just a little less light than Erik...  
  "That's my point. Another six years. Why do it?" Charles turned to face Erik then, wanting, needing a sufficient explanation as to why Erik could possibly want to leave him for so long-   
  "No one's really going to give me work as a landscape gardener. I don't want to teach, or go in for the civil service. And medicine interests me..." Here he shrugged, and his face clouded as another thought occurred to him. "Look, I've arranged to pay your father back."  
  Charles blanched at the sentence. It was a hidden accusation, as if he actually thought money was the thing upsetting Charles so deeply.  
  "That's not what I meant at all."  
  Charles tried to throw as much poison into those words as he felt was hidden behind Erik's, but it was either too much or too little, because all Erik did was furrow his brow in confusion. Charles huffed and turned back to the fountain, gripping the vase in both hands before setting it on the basins edge. Before he could begin removing the flowers, he heard a sigh as Erik approached.  
  "Let me take that." He offered, reaching for the handle of the vase as he came up on Charles's side.  
  "I can manage, thanks." Charles spat as he attempted to free the vase from Erik's grasp.   
  "Look, I've got it. Just take the flowers."  
  "No, Erik, let me-"  
  "Charles, just take the flowers-"  
  With a snap like a twig underfoot, the bulk of the vase and the handle grasped in Erik's palm separated, leaving a chunk of the ornate finishing in a free-fall before it landed just inside the pool of the basin. Two other pieces broke off and clattered onto the cement near Charles's bare feet.  
  Both stared shocked at the water, then at each other, then at the pieces of vase in their hands, and then to each other again.   
  "Oh, you idiot! Look what you've done!" Charles finally snapped, the frustrations of the day taking their toll as he frantically waved his arms.  
  "It can be repaired. Move, I'll go and get the piece." Erik said, reaching up to start unbuttoning his shirt.  
  "No. I'll do it myself." Charles spat, rising from where he was perched at the basin. He nearly stepped right on the jagged edge of one of the shards by his feet. Erik yelled his name in warning, holding a hand out to stop Charles from stepping forward again. He huffed angrily again, reaching down to pick up the shards and setting them next to the vase and flowers. He then reached up and began flying through the buttons of his shirt.   
  "Charles, what are you-" He cut Erik off with a glare, already finishing with his shirt and shrugging it off impatiently. He then reached to undo the fly of his trousers, looking away from Erik. It wasn't strange for Erik to be seeing him like this; they had been undressed in front of each other many times before, two young boys growing up in a house together. But in this moment Charles felt more exposed than he ever had. Discarding his undershirt and trousers, he stood to get in the water, nothing but his thin underwear separating him and Erik's unreadable gaze. He didn't just feel vulnerable; he was hurt too, that Erik could see him like this and still want to leave...  
  But that was his punishment, Charles thought. If Erik were to be leaving Charles's life forever, he would leave him with the image of a Charles he would rue the most; a man near naked, hurt, vulnerable, exposed, alone. And all at the fault of Erik himself. That was what he deserved.   
  Before Erik could protest again, Charles turned and stepped without reluctance into the fountain, quickly submerging himself despite the screams of cold in his veins. He searched the bottom for a moment before his hand alighted on the piece of the vase. Snatching it up, he quickly resurfaced and climbed back up onto the edge of the basin.   
  He stopped, frozen, when he realized Erik was stuck where he had last left him, hand tightly gripped around his piece of vase. He regarded Charles, who was absolutely soaking and dripping wet, blatantly exposed in his lack of clothing, with a nearly bemused expression, before realizing he had observed too long and made an effort to look away, but not before casting a glance at his-  
  No. No, he most certainly did not. Charles would not allow himself to even entertain the idea of an Erik with wandering eyes. He clambered off the fountain’s edge, in an admittedly haughty manner, and began pulling his clothes on again. He tucked his shirt tails into his pants but did not bother to redo his buttons, knowing now he would most certainly need to change (and bathe) before dinner. He removed the flowers from the vase and deposited the three chunks inside. Taking the flowers in hand and the vase under his arm, he moved to return to the house.  
  Erik had looked away while Charles dressed, but now turned his attention back to Charles as he went to pass him. "Charles-" He started, but he was cut off by Charles angrily yanking the handle out of Erik's hand and storming off to the house.  
  Erik sighed, giving up and moving to sit on the edge of the basin. He held a hand flat against the water, presumably checking for any other pieces that could have fallen.  
  Charles, meanwhile, had trudged his way up to the house, still wet and miserable from his day, fuming over his frustrations with Erik. Now he would have to spend half his afternoon repairing the stupid vase instead of getting ready...  
  Neither of the men, however, noticed the small face of Raven watching the entire scene unfold from the old nursery window. Neither saw her hand come up to cover her mouth, or back away from the window, her face a mask of abject horror, unable to comprehend what had just transpired.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

  The movement of Charles ripping the vase handle from Erik’s hands left his palm buzzing with unmentionable emotion. He clenched his fist tightly as an insult to himself, feeling the sensation travel up his arm and into the depth of his chest. How could he have been so reckless?  
  Charles's biting action had undoubtedly hurt Erik’s ego more than his hand, and he had reason to believe this was intentional. Despite how callous Charles was making himself out to be, Erik was far more disappointed in his own behavior. How disgraceful it must feel to be so starkly exposed in front of a old friend, a friend whom had just made an imbecile of himself, and catch that trusted pair of eyes feasting on your dampened flesh as if devastatingly starved.   
  He turned sharply to watch Charles hastily trot through the trim grass up to the house. Any resonating shock of the prior situation had now sobered into a looming shame as Erik backed up to sit on the trim of the rippling fountain. Turning toward the basin, he cautiously brought his hand over the water before softly letting his palm rest on the edge of the surface Charles had plunged in moments ago.   
  He let this hand linger and feel the vibrations made as he momentarily disturbed the balance of the water. It was as if Charles had left a touch of his spirit in the liquid after submerging his body to retrieve the vase shard. It was the closest Erik had felt to Charles in months.   
  During the two’s time studying in Cambridge, the bond that had once formed as young children had began to abandon them. Erik’s status being what it was, he became an instantaneous outcast compared to his high-class friend. It quickly became apparent to him that Charles wished to distance himself as much as possible, and certainly did not wish to be accompanied by a misplaced pup of a childhood kin mate. The two rarely spoke in the years to follow and Erik grieved deeply for how estranged they had become. At Cambridge, Charles became an entirely different man in a matter of weeks. He spoke and carried himself differently, began abandoning more traditional morals and presented much newer versions, and had even taken up the habit of smoking. Coincidentally, Erik had taken up smoking around the same time as Charles. Though he doubted he had noticed Erik’s silent plea for a shared common trait at the time. Any hope he had of regaining intimacy with Charles became buried under guilt, shame, and simple time. He couldn’t force a relationship onto Charles, no matter how badly he wished to do so.   
  When their studies were over the two returned home to their childhood estate. In order to pay back the debts he and his mother owed to the Xavier family, he took up the title of the estate’s keeper. He now tended to the gardens and greenery of the home which only isolated himself further from Charles. His only hope was to return to school for a doctorate in an attempt to make something of himself other than a worn servant. It seemed this idea left a bad taste in Charles’ mouth, which was surprising seeing as he expected him to be delighted by the absence of Erik Lehnsherr: the nuisance. It was impossible to know Charles’ thoughts on the matter, seeing as any interaction the two had recently been forced into elicited similar bitter responses out of Charles. Erik often found himself wishing there was a way to enter the mind of this complicated man, but quickly surrendered to the reality of his humanity.

  As Erik lifted himself from the fountain’s ledge, he made his way in the direction of the familiar stretch of road. He wished to escape from the previous encounter as hastily as possible before dwelling too long.

  He knew that the road eventually led to the small quarters he and his mother shared, where he hoped to write a letter of apology for his previous obscene behavior.  
  The path up to his cottage had always been a pleasant journey for Erik. There was not a more wondrous time of day for him than after his work was accomplished and he was able to return home. The dirt road, trimmed with long grasses and small wildflowers, was purposefully unattended to, to keep dust from consuming the road. Erik was thankful for this, for this pathway was the only area bearing flowers between the Xavier estate and his modest dwelling place. It makes for a most amiable jaunt, especially when it must be made several times a day. It was an especially appreciated distraction after the recent abhorrent interaction. He tried as best he could to ignore his emotions on the matter, but felt them menacingly filling his insides. He begged he would arrive at the house soon, because no matter how beautiful the scenery he needed to rest his mind in his familiar nestling space.   
  A soft droning sound, overlooked at first, grew in intensity as he walked forward. When he recognized the tone’s existence, Erik noticed he had been looking down at his feet instead of in front of him. He lifted his head to see a yellow car heading in his direction a short distance away. He recognized that it belonged to his dear friend, Hank. He was suddenly reminded of Hank’s return visit, which had previously escaped his mind at the fountain. Hank’s car was a very sweet, appreciated sight. He was suddenly very thankful to have caught him in his arrival, for it had been much time since the two had spoken and Erik would have hated to miss words with him. He began a slow run up the path to meet the approaching vehicle. Once in speaking distance, Hank pulled the car to a stop and the two greeted each other in a reuniting handshake.   
  “Hank! It is wonderful to see you back home once again.” He grinned.   
  Hank beamed back at him with childlike fervor, returning the handshake. “Likewise my friend, it has been far too long indeed! I must introduce you to my associate, Sebastian Shaw, who has been gracious enough to accompany me on my return. Sebastian, this is Erik Lehnsherr, the estate’s groundskeeper and my old kin mate. Erik, Charles, and I all grew up together here on this soil.”   
  The two men shook hands quickly and gave nods of recognition. Shaw’s grip on Erik’s hand was tight and overbearing, an obvious but feeble attempt at dominance. He was not sure whether he simply appeared to be unnecessarily crass when compared to Hank, or whether his personality was worn on his sleeve and immediately apparent. Nevertheless, he was able to exchange pleasantries with the new guest without giving too many hints of distrust.   
  “We really must be getting up to the house. You will be accompanying the family for dinner tonight, won’t you?” Hank inquired.   
  Erik’s smile faded quite suddenly, realizing no one had spoken with him about the night’s events.   
  “I... don’t believe I have been invited.” He chose to reply, giving a short laugh in an attempt to avoid awkwardness.   
  “Nonsense, consider this a formal invitation. Do be present, please. We must catch up after this much time away!”   
  “If you insist, I would be delighted. On your way now, your family waits with little patience!”   
  The two shared a private pang of amusement as Hank’s car began to roll forward once more. He gave the tail end of the car two assuming pats before it roared back to life and sped toward the direction Erik had come from. He turned the opposite direction to move once more toward the house but stopped in his tracks. Unpleasant realizations began to spiral in his head, understanding far too late that accepting Hank’s dinner invitation was much more complicated than previously thought. Charles will no doubt be furious at his presence, and the idea of facing him after the incident at the fountain made his stomach tighten with regret. He had gotten himself in quite a troublesome position with no escape plan. He moved forward again with more speed, suddenly in desperate need of a warm bath.


	3. Chapter 3

 

  After a long, much needed bath, Charles retreated to his room to begin preparing for the evening. After a terse announcement to a bewildered Raven that he was not to be bothered until Hank arrived, he had locked himself in and went about cleaning and ironing his outfit for the evening dinner. He put on nice enough clothes after bathing; after all, he would have to look at least mildly presentable when he was to greet Hank and Shaw at the door.   
  Fishing another cigarette out of his many hidden caches, he lit it and sat down to polish his dress shoes. After a few peaceful moments of his headache fading and and something actually being accomplished for once,  Charles felt as though he was ready to face the rest of the day with an air of pleasure. Raven's play was to be performed, a wonderful meal to be had, and much less of a chance to run into Erik...   
  Charles sighed as he finished his cigarette and threw out the butt. He went back to his polishing, scrubbing now with a fervor. Throwing himself into mindless tasks often helped relieve the tension in his body, but it still left room for troubles in his mind. There was nothing he could do to dodge the myriad of emotions he was still reeling from. Their encounter at the fountain should not have offended him so, and yet, here he was, fighting a near panic because of the barrage of feelings. How could Erik be so clueless? Money... as if money had ever been a struggle for the Xavier's. As if they would ever withhold it from Erik! He was practically a member of the family! How could he have missed the fact that it was the distance that so bothered Charles was beyond him.   
  It must have to do with Cambridge, Charles decided after a moments consideration. He set aside his polished shoes and reached for the iron to begin pressing his clothes.   
  Cambridge, that had to be it. Charles and Erik had gone for term at the same time, but studied in different fields. Charles, who took up studies in literature and genetics, barely ran in any of the same circles as Erik's architectural engineering major studies landed him. And frankly, Charles had spent quite a bit of time avoiding Erik, because in all honesty, if there was ever a time for their relationship to finally come to a head, it was off at college, away from the scrutinizing eyes of the Xavier family and staff.   
  There was no denying a chemistry between the two of them. The pair had been inseparable since childhood, when Edie had arrived to take up her position with young Erik in tow. It had been somewhat of a scandalous thing at first, what with Erik having no father to speak of, but the Xavier's (especially young Charles and Hank) were quick to integrate Erik into their lives. It was clear that he was to grow up to work; from a young age he began picking up twice the chores of the Xavier boys to pay his dues so to speak. But Charles's father took a liking to Erik, and when the day came, began funding his education as well as his sons. And when they decided to go away to college together, Charles had dared to let himself think that this could be the time, where Erik would finally admit-   
  But this wasn't to be. Talk about scandalous! Men were not to love each other like that, Charles knew full well. But still, so much of him was still so bitter that Erik hadn't made an attempt at- well, an attempt.   
  Charles stopped himself again. More important things were ahead than pathetic, wishful fantasies. He ran through his list of positives of the evening, doing his best to lighten his spirits once more. Raven's play. Reunited with Hank. A pleasant family meal. No Erik.   
  Erik. Who was on his damn list. Who was on every damn list Charles had ever made. Every list he would ever make.   
  He hefted a sigh and hung his head. Whatever it was he felt for Erik, he knew it would never be requited. It was a mistake to even think the way he did. And if Erik wanted to go off to school for another six years and leave Charles behind, what was he to do? There was no power in his hands to alter the situation. He simply had to wait it out.                                         

 

***

  
  Charles had just put the finishing touches on his clothes when he heard the telltale crunch of tires on their gravel drive. Satisfied that he had done everything he could to prepare for the evening, (with the exception of helping Raven set up the stage, he would have to make it up to her later) he took off down the stairs to greet Hank and his guest as they entered the house.   
  "Cee? Mother?" Hank called to the empty foyer as he and Shaw entered, their houseboy Kurt Wagner in tow with his arms full of suitcases. Charles came down the stairs, grinning ear to ear at the sight of his brother.   
  "Hank!" He exclaimed, pulling his sibling in for a tight embrace as Hank awkwardly tried to remove his hat and hug Charles at the same time.   
  "Cee, good to see you." Hank smiled, placing his hat on a nearby table so he could give Charles a proper handshake. (Which they performed as a joke, of course.)   
  "And you must be Mr. Shaw." Charles said after, turning his attention to the other man with his hand extended.   
  "Sebastian." Shaw smiled and spoke with a surprising American accent, gripping Charles's hand in a firm shake.   
  "Charles Xavier." He wore his most formal smile, the one he saved for such occasions, the one he knew was sure to charm anyone trapped under the weight of it. He retracted his hand however, clasping both behind his back. Shaw gave him a strange look, but he continued on. "An american! Hank didn't tell me you were across the pond. What business brings you to England?"   
  "No money in candy out there, someone's already beat me to it."   
  "You manufacture candy?"   
  "Chocolate. I've become something of a staple in the industry here."   
  "Something indeed." Hank interjected with a proud smile, clapping Shaw on the back. "The Shaw Confectionery is the largest producer of chocolate in the country."   
  "No thanks to you brother, I'm sure." Charles quipped.   
  "Not him, but his machines." Shaw attempted to joke along with them. It was well intended, but the Xavier banter was better left to the family.   
  "Where's mother?" Hank inquired after a pause, glancing about the foyer. Kurt had remained near the door, looking on the scene in confusion, as if waiting for instructions.   
  "Oh, the large room Kurt, next to the nursery." Charles offered him, glad to see Kurt register his guidance and head off up the stairs. "She's currently locked away in her room." Charles turned his attention back to Hank. "One of her me-graines." He added, raising an eyebrow. Hank gave a short laugh.   
  "Of course she is."   
  The three men retreated into the parlor for drinks, Charles leading the way to the cellarette. He pulled out a few choices for Hank, and once his brother had made his selection (with unnecessary input from Shaw) small drinks were poured (it was still quite early in the day, and Sharon would be quite angry to find them already a bit sauced by dinner) and they settled into comfortable conversation. Shaw was asked about his business, which set him off on a tangent longer than the ones Erik used to- Oh god, thought Charles. Not now.   
  "And Hank's help with the new factory has increased production over three hundred percent." Charles tuned back into Shaw's endless droning, actually interested to hear how his brother's advancements had helped. Charles had never quite understood all of Hank's complicated mechanics and calculations, even on the many occasions he had tried explaining them to his younger brother. Though Charles was a scientific mind, his genius was limited, and stopped directly at engineering. Still, he held an immense pride for his brother and all he had built, and would be supportive in any way he could, as long as it wasn't hands-on assistance.   
  "I think you're exaggerating the figures my dear fellow-"   
  "Oh Hank, don't be so deprecating, I'm sure you've made much more of a difference than you presume. Besides, I doubt you keep the books."   
  "He doesn't!" Proclaimed Shaw, gesturing widely with his glass, and launching into an explanation of long, grueling hours spent in his regal mahogany-clad office, bent over book after book of ledgers and receipts, calculating complex figures with his Oxford-sharpened brain. Charles shot Hank a knowing look as his brother gave a small sigh. His look was understood, as was per the usual between the two brothers. They had perfected the art of communication through glances over their years; the pair had developed a sort of secret language, a game even. Often they would make a face at the table to make the other laugh (a game that shamefully carried on to their older years) or raise an eyebrow after a ludicrous statement from their mother. It was their way of communicating adult topics in front of Raven, or sharing distaste for Sharon's behavior without her reprimanding. It was also truly their own; the many attempts at teaching Erik their subtleties went over his head, so to speak. This time, Hank's sigh spoke of familiarity. He had evidently heard this speech a million times beforehand. Charles shot him a glance that said he held no envy. Charles did not want to hear this speech a second time, let alone a million.   
  "Charles, you're a literate man. Riddle me this; if I hire a man for work sixteen hours a week, at minimum wage, I would have to hire a great many more men to make enough product to meet my quota." Charles nodded at the pause, his full attention now trained on Shaw. "So it would make much more sense to hire men at a full time position, yes?"   
  "Oh, yes. Naturally."   
  "But here's the kick: with the way your godforsaken continent is headed, you'll all be at war soon, with Germany no doubt, and all the men will be gone off in the trenches."   
  "War really is a strong word, Sebastian-"   
  "Not now Hank." Shaw turned back to Charles, eyes glinting with passion. "So, who on earth would be left to employ?"   
  Charles cast his mind for the answer, or rather the one he knew Shaw was searching for. "Uh, the- the women?"   
  "The women." Shaw clapped triumphantly, leaning back in his chair again. "The women, boys. And isn't that a regular joke? Women, doing factory work."   
  "Not particularly-"   
  "No, Charles, not particularly. Not when you have as ingenious a plan as mine. Now, I propose, once this war is to get on, that I will open up my factory employment to women of all ages. Legal working ages, of course. And here's the truly brilliant part: A woman working full time costs just as much to pay as a man working sixteen hours." He swirled his drink with a sickening grin, looking between Charles and Hank as if waiting for praise. Charles was, in all honesty, quite disgusted with Shaw's proposal. He could not see the fairness in giving a woman maybe one third the pay for the same work. It stank of exploitation, and Charles found himself instantaneously repelled by the man.   
  "Would you be asking them to perform different tasks? Less labor, perhaps?" He said finally, trying to be delicate with his rebuttal. It was impolite to contradict such an honorable guest whom he had just served drinks, but he most certainly would not congratulate Shaw on his horrid ideals.   
  "No my dear boy! Whatever for? Women are just as capable! But much more willing to work for less, which is the real blessing. Tell me, would you not do the same?"   
  "Shall we go for a swim?" Hank interjected, noting Charles's discomfort from the overbearing guest. "It's dreadfully hot, and I would so love a relaxing dip before dinner."   
  "A swim sounds lovely, brother."           

 

***

  
  Sitting perched on the diving board, Charles managed to drown out Shaw's drabble enough to actually enjoy the moment. Hank did well enough listening to the mogul's speeches; Charles suspected he was used to this, working so closely with Shaw, and that most of it was a show to impress the Xavier's while he was here. It wasn't particularly hard to impress Hank, in all honesty. Charles's brother had a sort of quiet disposition towards the world: Hank, simply put, saw only the good around him. He had an affinity for finding well-meaning in even the darkest of intentions, which their mother found a fault and Charles a blessing. It was less an honest innocence, but rather a proven reality, as Hank had stumbled upon only the best of human kind throughout his years. Lucky: Hank was lucky. He had good fortune and good friends and a good outlook. Everything with him was good. He radiated an air of contentment everywhere he went, and lulled all those near him into a state of bliss simply by his kind smile and gentle voice. Charles had tried all his life to emulate Hank's ease, but had only ever succeeded in awkward formality. Charles wouldn't call himself a nervous man, per se, but he did have his worries and couldn't help but feel like he wore them on his sleeve. He was adept at feigning charm; many people, men and women, had come to know him as a particularly suave and rather flirtatious man, even. He played it off effectively, but the truth was that he had never had his heart in it. Maybe that was the biggest difference between him and his brother, or even him and Shaw. Hank's kindness came from his soul; so did Shaw's pretentious passion. Charles had only seldom been enthusiastic about a few matters: his siblings, his study of genetics, Erik-   
  "We saw Erik on the way in, Charles." As if on cue, Hank broke Charles from his reverie with the statement, cutting off Shaw in the middle of an incredibly dry tale of a paperwork run-around he endured last week.   
  "Did you." Charles managed, still staring down at the water over his knees, which were hugged to his chest.   
  "I invited him to come to dinner tonight."   
  Charles felt a strange sensation in his chest, like a pin falling from his heart to his stomach, or a sudden constriction of his lungs. He dropped his head with a sigh, trying to expel the feeling with his exhale.   
  "I do wish you hadn't."   
  "Why not?" Hank asked, genuine confusion coloring his voice. And it was warranted, really. It was so unlike Charles not to want Erik there, it felt alien even to him. But he couldn't help but feel like he wanted nothing more than to distance himself from Erik as much as possible. Charles chose not to respond. There was nothing to say aloud, was there? Why did he not want Erik there? He couldn't think of any words that would do it justice, let alone a singular sentence. And an I Don't Know wasn't sufficient either, because he did know. He did want Erik there. He just couldn't ever bring himself to say why.   
  When he heard the familiar click of a lighter, he turned, seizing the opportunity to change the subject.   
  "Has anyone got a cigarette?"   
  Shaw shot him a smile and handed him the one he had just lit, which Charles accepted with a smile himself and took a relieving drag.   
  "Charles, why would you not want Erik at my reunion dinner? I've been just as much his brother as you, he'd been so happy to see me. Of course I invited him." So then, Hank wasn't having it.   
  Charles stood with a sigh, fishing for an answer that didn't seem ridiculous. "I just don't think it would be proper." And for the second time that day, he kicked himself mentally for saying such stupid things when he so desperately needed not to sound stupid.   
  "Why on earth wouldn't it be proper? He's been at every summer meal we've had for the last seven years!" Hank said incredulously. More than that, actually, Charles wanted to correct him, but he held his tongue. He walked to edge of the diving board and took another long drag.   
  "Look, I really think you should go and tell him not to come." He said after a moment.

  "Why? Has he done something wrong?" Charles tensed, angered at the question, but also at himself. Of course Erik had done nothing wrong. He'd done nothing, and that was what bothered him the most. He flicked his half-smoked cigarette into the pool in absent-minded aggravation.   
  "Oh, for God's sake." He muttered, much more himself than to the confused Hank. And with that, his feet pushed off, and he dove headfirst into the water, praying it would wash away the unending tension in his shoulders.  


	4. Chapter 4

  One might hold a great disliking to lukewarm bathing water, but nothing quite extinguished Erik’s overheated body and mind like a tepid bath. As ordinary as this task may seem, he seemed to find much bliss in his daily bath. It was as if his whole universe reset as his frame submerged further into the water. His temple pressed onto the edge of the porcelain bathtub as his eyes gazed lazily out of the small window in this bathing area.   
  Outside of his small cottage, the sky was surrendering to dusk in a vibrant display of orange, yellow, and violet. The night slowly turning darker as time rolled on, and further up into the atmosphere a war plane passed by from one side of the window to another. Erik watched it’s journey admiringly, while admittedly in an absent-minded manner. He knew that he was thoroughly clean and fresh, however his body remained stagnant in an attempt to avoid the night’s events. With a difficult writing session, an important dinner party, and a particularly coy interaction with Charles ahead of him, he knew it was best not to dottle with the night. He lacked little and all motivation to continue with the evening, the only motivator seeming to be another chance encounter with Charles. It took much emotional strength to remove himself from the bath, but the thought of putting things right with his “Professor” allowed him this strength. Letting the resting water drip off of his naked frame, he amused himself with the concept of Charles teaching youth as their professor like he so often considered. The title seemed to suit him, and Erik often teased with this nickname to the great displeasure and delight of Charles. He discovered a towel for himself, attempting not to think much about similar fond encounters as they all seemed to lead his mind to the fountain earlier today. The details seemed to swim through his mind; cool water, vase shards, wet clothing. Wet. He threw his towel over his eyes to dry his face and to keep his thoughts inside him. Half dressed and half bursting from thought, he lead himself to his small, intimate study.  
  
***  
  
  Erik sat himself at the familiar wooden desk that held his typewriter. His tailbone sank into the grooves of the chair below him, giving a familiar groaning as he placed his weight on top of the seat. He took great care in placing his fingertips on the cool keys before him, methodically pondering how to approach the task of writing an apology letter. The texture of each letter gliding under his touch brought great fondness to his mind. This typewriter, being one of his most prized possessions, was gifted to him by the Xavier family. He would have undoubtedly been unable to afford such a fine contraption if it had not been for his charitable second family. He had been so grateful for the gesture, although it became yet another item Erik felt as though he must eventually pay back. He desired desperately not to depend so heavily on others, but his ego would not keep him from accepting such materialistic pleasures as a new typewriter. Visible grooves and worn spots presented themselves on the sleek table top, exposing how many long nights had been spent in this familiar niche. Water stains and accidental cigarette burns surrounded the beautiful machine, which he both loathed and adored. It gave him peace of mind to be at this place of tranquility and safety at this time. However, he was very aware of the tricks his mind was playing on him in an attempt to distract from the task ahead.   
  Simply put, he had not a simple clue how to go about a proper apology. He had never been a man of beautiful words; eloquence had always been a trait exclusive to Charles. Erik let out a sigh of anger at his own actions. If he had not have made a complete fool of himself at the fountain he would not be in this situation in the first place. He needed to be better than this, and the frustration was devouring him internally. Another breath made its way into his lungs, and a forced relaxation rested inside him. He must do this correctly, and he must start this instant. He forced his spine to straighten into better posture. His finger guided the paper into the machine meticulously and he stared thoughtfully at the fresh letter awaiting him. He decided to openly type his stream of consciousness as a starting point.  
  
**_Dear Charles,_** ** _  
_****_  
_** **_If it’s any excuse, I’ve noticed just lately that I’m rather lightheaded in your presence. I mean, I’ve never gone barefoot into someone’s house before. It must be the heat!_**  
  
  A pitiful start. Erik pursed his lips in disfavor at the words on the page, feeling deeply that they were vague and meaningless. He struggled to find more to say without revealing too much of himself, which came with a great struggle. Erik knew that there was a balance between a genuine apology letter and an uncomfortable confession. He didn’t wish to dwell on the encounter he had had with Charles days earlier, walking into the Xavier home in complete barefoot. His proper judgement had been thrown completely out of the way after a particularly fond interaction with Charles moments before, he had disregarded any and all manners and causally strolled into the home without noticing his naked feet on the cool floor. Charles had looked at him with such shock that he retreated almost instantly when discovering his mistake. He felt the need to apologize for all of his wrongdoings, which recently seemed to occur more often than usual. He tugged the paper from the typewriter and mashed it with a dissatisfied intensity, throwing the ball aside and replenishing the machine with a fresh piece. He took several breaths before rising from his seat and traveling to the opposite side of the small study area.   
  His record player waited patiently in front of him, and Erik knew exactly what he wished to hear. He placed the arm of the needle delicately onto the overplayed record. Soon after, the notes of Arabesque No 1. By Debussy swirled around him. The feeling of the music flowing filled his heart with grace and sentiment, as Debussy had a habit of doing. Returning to sit place at the desk, he felt pangs of emotion that he rarely let seep from himself. He fought the ever growing determination and worry in equal measures while proceeding, fretting that this could be a greater challenge than he expected. After typing his previous sentences once again he began to focus where he left off, on the sentence about the weather. He despaired at how arbitrary it sounded to speak of the weather in an apology letter to his unrequited flame, but continued to correct.  
  
**_“Cee, I don’t think I can blame the heat!”_**  
  
  So painfully casual, like the myriad of mistakes he had made today seemed humorous to him when they were anything but. No, he must do away with the exclamation point. Erik stared at the nickname inked on the page with happy nostalgia but an unignorable uncertainty. Charles or Cee? Charles, or Cee? He decided Charles.  
  
**_“Charles, I don’t think I can blame the heat.”_** ** _  
_**  
  Now the sentence screamed passive dimness, and the meaning could easily be misconstrued as disingenuous, or worse... flirtatious. That would not make the situation any better. He slumped in his seat, thinking with discouragement how Charles was always better with words than he was. Charles would always be perfection to Erik, no matter what would become with the threads of their relation. Perfection. What did perfection look like to a man like Erik Lehnsherr? Blue eyes that could easily be mistaken for crystals, and a smile that shares his warmth with you. Hands that take care with every action, as if precisely calculated and practiced to be skillful. The faint smell of tobacco and new books, cologne musk and crisp after shave. And lavender soap, his favorite scent since his youth. Well...apart from roses. It reminds him of a fond memory of helping Charles hang his clothing on the line beside the rose garden. Charles admitted once that he believed the location of his clothesline made his clothing smell vaguely of roses, a thought in which Erik thinks about frequently. The very reason that Erik takes particular care in tending to Charles’ roses. Though if Erik had to choose his favorite attribute about Cee, it would always be his beloved skin marks. Freckles, spread across his body like stars. They sprinkle his face, his arms and his back. He doubted Charles has ever seen the 7 dots that curve down his spine to the birthmark just below his left glute. He stopped suddenly, feeling heat radiate to his face and the pit of his abdomen. Every moment he attempted to push images of Charles away, they returned with devious motive. Very suddenly, he pulled the paper out of his typewriter once again. He frantically began to type as if controlled by an ununderstood force of nature. The impulse was not unlike him, but was not expected to be so powerful.  
  
**_Dear Charles,_** ** _  
_** **_  
_****_In my dreams I kiss your cock, your sweet wet cock. In my thoughts I make love to you all day long._** ** _  
_****_Erik_** ** _  
_**  
  He stared at the obscenely erotic confession that rested in front of him under the grip of the typewriter. The longer he gawked, the more his face gave way to humor before bursting into a snorting laugh. Unbelievable.   
  He noticed the opened Gray’s Anatomy book beside him on the cluttered desk, and he took it into his hands quickly. His fingers flipped through the pages until reaching the Splanchnology system, page 1546, the penis.   
  Here you are, made to play the fool again. Controlled only by the constrictions of your accursed penis, he thought.  
  Gazing at the multitude of figures on the page of phallic resemblance and the anatomy of such workings, he moved from scolding his own genitalia to the sudden wonder of what making love to Charles would look like….or feel like. He put the book down hastily, knowing it was best to abandon and repress the idea before working himself up further. He had present manners to attend to. Removing the poem from the typewriter, he carefully folded and held the parchment to his chest. The idea of Charles ever discovering that slip of impulse sent ice through his spinal cord. Deciding that the little sheet of paper shall never see the light of day, he set it beside the Gray’s Anatomy textbook and took a much needed breath. He ran his hands over his face and through his dampen, post bath hair. His hands interlocking at the crown of his skull, he stretched the muscles of his collar and back. Releasing his hands and slumping in the seat once more, he breathed a sigh and reached to roll a cigarette. His fingers moved with ease over the paper, maneuvering the leaves and containing them with mastery needing years of practice. Once complete, he placed it loosely at the edge of his thin lips and let his lighter set the end aflame. With one drag of his work, his head cleared instantly. He sat there for many minutes, letting the background music fill his mind. He leaned this body into the back of his chair and let a lungful of smoke escape his mouth and nostrils smoothly. Watching the smoke seep out of his body was peaceful solace from the whirlwind he felt. His instincts aided him little in giving coherent direction, so he forced himself upright to finish what he started. Once he faced the typewriter for another time today, he let his eyes roll up inside his skull. He made himself wonder, If you could say anything to Charles, what words would make this apology feel right? He placed his hands on the cool keys, and let the light return to his eyes.  
  
**_Dear Charles,_** ** _  
_** **_  
_****_You’d be forgiven for thinking me mad the way I acted this afternoon—wandering into your house barefoot, or snapping your antique vase. The truth is, I feel rather light headed and foolish in your presence, Cee, and I don’t think I can blame the heat. Will you forgive me?_** ** _  
_****_Erik_** ** _  
_**  
  As he continuously reread the lines, his heart sank with a penetrating sadness. These were the perfect words. No other words felt to be enough for him, this was the apology that Charles deserved. But as he read his letter once, twice, three times he knew the words were too intimate, too soft spoken...too loving. To him the words were a confession of homosexuality, and this within itself was dangerous and terrifying. If Charles was to take this letter for what it was, he feared it could be used against him. That was of course if Erik’s love was unreciprocated, which he had no doubt was the case. The crippling despair was traveling through his body as he pleaded for understanding from the universe. He felt as though he could burst with thought in this very moment. Why was it so imperative that he hide from his attraction? Why must he been seen as a freak of nature when the feelings felt when looking at Charles come so naturally to him? He wished for these things to disappear into the darkness where they belonged. Yet, at the idea of losing the warmth he felt when Charles was near him, he retracted this plead. If he was to be cursed with secrecy, at the very least he deserved to remember the good his heart so often felt. Erik decided that a final draft was in order, one lacking in any hint of underlying motive. An apology, simply an apology.  
  
**_Dear Charles,_** ** _  
_****_  
_****_You’d be forgiven for thinking me mad the way I acted this afternoon. It’s hardly an excuse, I know, but lately I seem to be awfully light headed around you. What was I doing, walking barefoot into your house? And have I ever snapped off the rim of an antique vase before? Please forgive my foolishness._** ** _  
_****_Erik_** ** _  
_**  
  His eyes burned, his chest felt heavy, and every inch of his mind seemed to scold him, but the letter was written and that was that. His head swam with thought and his legs ached, but he buried these pains within himself. After all, he had a dinner to prepare for.  
  
***


	5. Chapter 5

  Looking back, no adult could pinpoint the moment they changed. Most children couldn’t name it either. In most cases, the change between child and adult is not recorded in a single instance. It isn’t contained to a thought, or an afternoon, or a gut feeling. At least, for everyone else.  
  Raven though, she knew. She could tell you the exact date, down to the letter, when she thought she grew up. And then the day she actually did.   
  The days for her, separated by years of harrowing hurt, unfolded much in the same way; both swirled by her, each incident flying past without proper time to process what had just transpired. Raven stumbled through these days in confusion, grasping desperate straws in an attempt to make sense of what was unfurling in her life. The first, an opening; the second, a closing. Both days that would affect so many more than just herself, but entirely dependent on her own actions. They were the days that Raven Xavier knew, wholeheartedly, that her world balanced on the tips of her fingers and tongue, and every word that spilled from them.   
  This was the first of those days.

 

***

  
  It was intended to be a day of joyous reunion. Busy, yes, but the kind of busy that one could relish in, the kind that kept you on your feet but didn’t exhaust you. Many events were planned ahead of time, and in the end, virtually all cancelled. Except the dinner. The dinner that would come to haunt all the present parties for years to come.   
  Well, except maybe the twins, who were currently dodging their rather aggressive maid (Raven had always loved Edie’s kindness over Betty’s iron fist) who was trying to get them in for a bath after their multiple trips to the pool earlier that morning. Raven couldn’t care less if they were caught; it was their fault for ducking out on her rehearsals every time Raven so much as turned her back. And she certainly wasn’t wondering where Emma was; she was still quite miffed with the older girl for taking her role in the play.   
  It was Raven’s play, after all, she reminded herself. Why should I have to give up the lead to her if she didn’t go through all those painstaking hours writing it? But in the moment she hadn’t such a strong resistance. She had let Emma not only steal the role but also the reigns under the weight of her cousins icy glare. Emma had a way of peering down her nose at people, even adults, and getting what she wanted. In a way Raven was jealous of that ability, but it was fleeting. Raven had enough control over her own imagined worlds. If Emma wanted to waste all her time with the real one, so be it. Raven would have entire universes in her hands when she sat to write again.   
  She had to admit that a play was a bit of a frivolous affair. She was well on her way to completing a novel, and had wasted a solid week on the production of a mediocre one-act that wasn’t to be fully realized anyways, not with the way “rehearsals” were going. It was much easier to craft a narrative, she thought. The descriptions came so easy to her, it was like second nature. Typed paragraphs and fresh ink had become like a second skin. It was bliss to become lost in the worlds of her imagination, pulling them out of her mind and onto the paper by the thin threads of ink she so deftly controlled.   
  Control was a part of it, she had to admit later on. Control, one of the prime motivators for her actions. In the moment it had felt like the world around her was spinning into chaos, her grasp of the narrative slipping further and further away. Something had to be done to get the story back on track.   
  Fate had just handed her that something, she thought, as she backed away from the window in the nursery. It wasn’t her first reaction, or one that made its way anywhere near the forefront of her brain. But deep down, it was one she had, and one she would address later on that evening as it all came together.   
  Her initial thoughts, however, were those of shock, confusion, and fear. She had been drawn to the window by the sound of a trapped fly, or bee perhaps, a bug that needed to be freed. And upon opening the window, she had noticed the figure of her brother and Erik Lehnsherr down by the fountain below. It wasn’t an uncommon sight, so at first she thought nothing of it, and moved to turn away. She was disrupted by the sound of a raised voice, almost taking shape of a word she couldn’t quite hear. She turned back to the window, enthralled, and saw Erik standing between Charles and the house with a hand stretched out. His posture was strange, even for Erik. It was common for the man to stand straight-backed and composed, but here he looked nearly confrontational, as if he was trapping Charles where he stood. When his hand dropped and he backed away, allowing Charles to move, Raven relaxed and moved to close the open window. After flipping the latch, she chanced one last glance before parting. She was shocked to see her brother standing next to the fountain's edge, hurriedly removing his clothes until he was left in his underwear. He glared angrily at Erik the whole time, who’s face Raven couldn’t see, but she did see something clenched in his fist. She watched on, flabbergasted, as Charles climbed over the basin and submerged himself in the water completely. Raven sat with bated breath, unable to tear her eyes away, as he stayed under for a few moments. Just as she was fearing he wouldn’t resurface, his head broke the water as he climbed back out, soaking wet and shivering. He climbed to the top of the basin and stood there for a moment, locking gazes with Erik. And Erik didn’t move an inch! He just stood there, stock-still, until Charles finally broke the connection off and stepped down to pull on his clothes again. Raven watched until Charles was dressed, picked up a shape perched on the edge of the fountain near them, ripped the object out of Erik’s hand, and headed off towards the house.   
  Raven was appalled. Nothing she had witnessed made any kind of sense. What on earth was the reason Charles needed to get in the fountain? No one had ever bothered being inside the thing. It was not a pool; all the children knew this well. Besides, the water was stagnant and algae-filled. No one would ever want to swim in that! And what had Erik been yelling? What had angered Charles so much? Was- was Erik threatening him?!   
  A thousand thoughts swam in Raven’s mind as she backed away from the window. The foremost being that she had to do something. She would track down Charles and find out what had happened, and together they would confront this adversary. Any enemy of Charles’s was an enemy of Ravens, and she would do anything to protect her brother. Even from their so-called “friend”.   
  But when she reached a soaking-wet Charles in the hall, he did not open up to her about the terrors of the fountain, or what horrid things Erik had done to him. She couldn’t even get a word out before he hurried past her.   
  “I’m not to be bothered before dinner, darling, thanks.” He mumbled in a fairly unkind tone as he pushed past, trying not to get water on  her clothes. She watched in awe as he retreated up the stairs, leaving damp footsteps in his wake. She went and stood next to the nearest ones, looking down at the size of her feet compared to his. She noticed, from the shape of the prints left behind, and the lack of shoes in his hands, that he had been barefoot.

 

***

  
  Raven could have easily moved on from that moment, knowing that later on when Charles was in a better mood and the excitement of the arrival of Hank had passed, the event would be explained to her and they could all look back with a laugh. But something inside of her was restless. The curiosity at the scene unsettled her so much so she could not even focus enough to write it down. Oh, how much she wanted to write it down. She tried for minutes on end to even formulate a single sentence, but she could not articulate the wonder of the moment just right. The issue became apparent to her then; she had changed positions. No longer was she the author. She was now, it seemed, a mere character in the play.   
  This would not do. Not for Raven Xavier, the great creator, the one in control. She would not sit idly by and let another become the playwright of her life. But there really wasn’t much to be done about it, not in that moment. She could not change her lack of knowledge, at least not then. Charles had shut everyone out of his room, and she was too scared to go out to the bungalow and ask Erik himself.   
  Erik had never struck Raven as the type to be violent, especially towards someone he held as dear as Charles. Raven had never seen the two look at each other in contempt, real contempt, beyond the casual infighting of young boys that she knew was abound in their relationship. But perhaps she had not properly understood the subtext of their banter; believing it to be friendly, she had taken it with a grain of salt as they had grown, and come to expect it from them. Their quips at each other came so quickly it seemed a second nature to the boys, and Raven had even delighted in it as a child, finding their casual contradiction a hilarity in contrast to their incredible compatibility. How wrong had she really been?   
  These thoughts angered her, and caused her to abandon any attempts at writing and rush out into the yard. She did not know where she desired to go, but knew she had to be away from the claustrophobia of the house. She would not be trapped there, under the thumb of a benevolent god, who did not deem it necessary for her to know the answers. She would find the answers, out here on the grounds.   
  She found herself wandering towards the fountain, examining the area for a clue to lead her further along. If she were to play a character, she would play the all-knowing detective, who would have all the answers before the audience in order to make the satisfying dramatic reveal.   
  Finding nothing but a drying patch of water by the fountain’s edge, she began meandering down the stretch of road leading to the bungalow. It was some distance between the small dwelling and the house, and the gravel road weaved its way through fields of tall overgrown flowers, with small foot paths branching off from it at intervals that lead to other points of interest on the grounds. Raven was the one to wander these paths the most, so she knew where they all lead. She did not want to make it to the end of the path, risking an encounter with Erik or his mother. So when she reached the trail to the small lake and island, she headed off west, winding her way through their expanse of a yard until she reached her destination.   
  Still seething with frustration, Raven picked up a large stick and began thrashing it at the tall weeds and Queen Anne’s Lace that grew around the small, dilapidated temple. It was a leftover relic of the estate the Xavier mansion used to be, but had not been maintained because of its lack of purpose and the age of their groundskeepers. Once Erik had come on the scene, it was considered to be restored, but deemed a waste of money and left to be consumed by the undergrowth.   
Erik. That monster. Upsetting her brother like that. How could he? After all the Xavier’s had given him. Time, money, companionship…   
  Raven pictured the man’s face as she struck down her next victim. She imagined a confrontation between them; her, the valiant hero, defending her brother’s honor as he had done for her so many times, and Erik, guilt-ridden, begging at their feet for forgiveness. She would be her brother’s savior this time. She owed him.   
  And in some small way, she owed it to herself too. She had known Erik her whole life, and trusted him through it too. Erik had been her third older brother, and the boys had practically raised her. All doting, caring, loving siblings, and Raven had idolized them in return. It was now revealed that Erik was the snake in the grass, the one that had wormed his way in and turned on them all. His betrayal grew in her mind, taking shape of a larger and darker suspicion. She did not know then that she was taking all of this out of proportion; all she knew was a constricting anger that did not go away unless she was mowing down weeds with her thin stick clutched in hand. She began to picture the faces of others she knew: her mother, who had never deeply loved her; Hank, who had left them all alone without his guidance; Charles, who had turned her away when he needed her most; and eventually, even herself.   
  The thought did not connect then, but this was the moment, the afternoon, the feeling, of growing up. The Raven she thrashed away at was the Raven of infancy, of childhood, of naievety. If she were to be involved in this mystery, she must take her place at the table as an adult, even at the young age of thirteen. She cast off her old self in that field next to the island, the temple, the small criss-crossing bridges, and beyond that, the long gravel road.

 

***

  
  Raven did not keep track of how much time had passed, or noises that sounded like cars far off in the distance, or the trajectory of the sun as it meandered the sky, but she did notice it as it began its final descent. She knew she would have to get ready for dinner still, and feared she would be punished for arriving late.   
  So she found herself hurrying through the field and its paths back to the main road, which she could take quickly back to the house and be ready for the evening. Unbeknownst to her, a figure was already making its way down this route, and began calling out to her in familiarity.   
  “Raven? Raven is that you?”   
  She immediately recognized the voice of Erik and stilled. She weighed her options; she could run down the path back to the island and take another around back to the house. Even at a run, this would take her longer, but it would keep her safe from Erik. But he was clearly on his way to the house, where she would surely encounter him, and be subsequently questioned as to why she ran. After all, not another soul was aware of her suspicions and why Erik was a man to be ran from. For now she had to play along, and make him think he was still welcomed and trusted. She would trap him, in the house, confront him publicly and make him admit his sins at the fountain and display his shame.   
  Raven walked up to the road where we was waiting with a smile, dressed to the nines in his best suit.   
  “Raven, dearest, could you do me a favor?” He said, in the sweet, caring voice he always reserved for her. Before it had made her feel comforted, safe even, but now it just made her sick. She did not respond, but he took it as a cue to continue. “Would you go on ahead and give this letter to Cee? I’d.. feel rather foolish giving it to him myself. I’ll only be a few minutes.” He extended a hand to her, depositing into her waiting fingers a crisp white, sealed envelope. She gave him a sheepish look; he gave her a familiar trusting smile. “Thank you.”   
  She took off running back to the house without another word, for fear of tipping off his suspicions, and fear of being caught in his anger or confrontation. She made it more than halfway to the house before she heard the distant sounds of him calling her name. She did not stop, or even turn round.

 

***

  
  When she reached the house, she was elated to find the foyer empty, and stopped there to catch her breath. Even though she knew she didn’t have time to waste, and that soon the house staff and her mother would be in search of her, she couldn’t help herself. Erik had given her the clue she had spent all afternoon searching for. She felt obligated by a higher power to open the envelope; who else was going to forward the plot? It was her duty as a writer to reveal, to advance the story to its fullest potential. She simply had to know.   
  With shaking hands and short breaths, Raven clumsily tore open the top of the envelope, pulling out a single white folded sheet of paper. She unfolded it and read, taking in every word with relish.   
  After a second time, she nearly dropped the letter in shock.


	6. Chapter 6

  Once they returned from their pool excursion, the three gentleman parted ways to prepare themselves for that evening. Hank promised Charles some time together to catch up on life over cocktails before the meal, and Charles wanted to give them as much of that as possible. He hadn't heard from Hank in a few months and was very eager to learn about the ins and outs of business life in London and Manchester and all the other places Hank had gone for work. Sharon had sent Edie up to inform Charles they were to eat at sundown, once the roast was done and all the guests were ready, so Charles gauged his time accordingly.

  He spent most of that time smoking as he got dressed and styled his hair. He also paused every time he caught sight of himself in the mirror, rehearsing lines for the evening. It was a habit Charles had formed as a child; he would prepare his speeches ahead of time, exactly as he knew he would be expected to say them. Call it a product of parenting; Sharon had never specifically stated that Charles needed to be a perfect child, but the responsibility of perfection had fallen on him in an albeit implied way. As the second boy, the least successful, and certainly not the most likable, Charles had begun to bear the full weight of Sharon's scrutiny over the years. Since Hank was such a hit in the world of modern engineering, Sharon often toted her oldest as a trophy rather than a child, but her false love was much preferred to her very real disappointment. And Raven, being the baby of the family, the most artistically talented, the only girl, and an unexpected late-in-life child, was a token, one whose world was filled with praise and opportunity. But Charles, Charles was the boy who solely showed interest in books and biographies and Erik, which of course did not translate into a reputable life of a high-class British citizen. And so, it became easier to hate the boy with no ambitions than to put extra effort into loving two children seen as investments. It was in this environment that Charles learned to become a well-oiled machine of manners; he did not miss a single formality in any interaction. He was plenty practiced in the art of preparation, and frequently found himself alone in his room before dinner parties rehearsing statements about his life. His schooling, his career, why he hadn't settled down, so on and so forth.   
  Tonight was no different. Though Hank was his brother and did not need a show, he was sure to be questioned more by Shaw, and if he was not his best in front of Sharon, he was sure to face judgments and reprimands later.   
  And then there was Erik.   
  Erik, the one whom Charles had never predetermined a single word for. And now felt as though every one of their conversations required a script; or rather, a translation book. Because Charles, for the life of him, could not determine the cause of their rift, or any solution that could repair it.   
  He took a deep breath, centering himself, as he put the finishing touches on his outfit. He glanced in the mirror a final time, fixing a stray piece of hair that refused to stay in place.   
  Sometime between a homework assignment at Cambridge and a trip to town the last month, Charles had come to terms with his feelings for Erik. It wasn't a sudden revelation or a slow, terrifying slide into realization, but rather a quiet resignation into himself, taking his better parts with him. Because the truth was an unbearable burden; it would mean Charles was what he had always abhorred. But even if these... perversions... only existed for Erik, it still made him an abomination. Especially if they were only for Erik. If the only love he could muster was the tainted kind, and for a man who could never possibly reciprocate such a devilish thing, then what could that mean for the rest of his life? Any woman he would force himself to marry he could not love, and this woman would know it too, and grow tired of a wanton two-dimensional relationship. So Charles would then have to be resigned to a life of solitude, because it just wasn't fair to put another soul through so much wasted effort. Resigned to forever be dodging questions about the lack of a respectable wife and glorious children to carry on his name.   
  But Charles did not want this. He did not want lies and solitude and dogged questions.   
  The simple fact was that he wanted Erik. And there was nothing to be done, because the man was pulling away, both emotionally and physically, and Charles had no idea how to get him back.   
  It was with this despondency that Charles adjusted his tie one last time and began his descent down the stairs.     
  He was interrupted before he reached the bottom by the sound of a small, frightened voice, calling out to another similarly pitched one. Turning to glance behind him, he saw the twins stood in the hallway he had just left, each glancing despondently down at a singular sock held in each of their hands. They were both dressed in their best for dinner, but walked barefoot. They talked in low, hushed, harried tones, and were clearly in distress. Charles turned fully and headed back up the stairs to the landing.   
  "Boys, is something the matter?" He called out as he reached them in the hall. They looked up in fear, both clearly shocked by Charles's sudden presence. Sean, who was stood closest to him, held up the small sock enclosed in his fist and looked at Charles with tears in his eyes. "That's a sock." He said plainly, trying not to sound patronizing. Sean nodded and looked at the ground again with a sniffle.   
  "The adults want us down for tea." He said in a small voice.   
  "Yes, it is about that time. What is the issue?" Instead of giving response, the boys both held up their socks, lost for words to explain. "You only have one sock each?" Alex nodded solemnly at him, keeping his eyes cast down away from Charles's face. "Well I suppose we just need to find another pair then. Shall we check your room?" He looked back and forth between the twins, waiting for a response. When neither of them spoke, he decided to take initiative. "Come on then, let’s go." He placed a guiding hand on Sean's shoulder and motioned for Alex to join, and then began to lead the boys down the hall to their room. He opened the door slowly once they arrived, and was met by an unruly sight. Their room was in complete disarray; bed sheets strewn every which-way, curtains torn from hanging rods and partially hanging down over windowsills, toys thrown haphazardly about the floor, and what looked to be every single item of clothing owned between the two of them placed in every location clothing shouldn't be. Charles took a deep breath as the twins stood silently at his sides. "Right. It's going to be quite difficult to find anything in this mess. Should we clean for a bit?" Alex and Sean nodded in response, not daring to move. He ushered the boys into the room and set about giving them small tasks to accomplish. Minutes passed and the three made sizable progress on the state of the room. Whether the mess was a product of the boredom or the loneliness or a combination of both, Charles did not know, but he did feel pity for the two boys who were so distraught to be brought to tears at the thought of lost socks. He supposed this new climate was too emotionally troubling for the two of them to comprehend. They had a new house to live in, a new family to answer to, and no reason given as to why this change was so thrust upon them. He felt a swell of sympathy for the boys, and decided it would be best to give them each clean socks from Raven's room rather than take much longer on their search. Sharon was no doubt waiting on the twins to come downstairs, and would grow irritable if they took too long, which Charles was sure they were aware of and was the largest cause of their current distress. After seeing to it that both Sean and Alex had a clean pair of socks with shoes on, he sent them off to tea and went to join Hank on the terrace for drinks.   
  He was delighted to find Hank already there, and waiting for Charles with a glass and a smile.   
  "Charles, finally, it's taken you millennia."     
  "Apologies, dear brother. I had quite a lot to do left over from this morning. You'll never believe the horror..."   
  Hank and Charles lapsed into comfortable and easy conversation, ranging from Charles's hectic morning to Hank’s contract with Shaw and their predictions to the content of Ravens play. Hank informed Charles that apparently Raven had given up on having it produced that evening; the cousins proved a troublesome casting, and refused to stay in rehearsals long enough to get anything of merit accomplished. Raven had resigned herself to a table reading after the dinner, where each would have to simply imagine the staging as the script was read aloud. Charles admitted his disappointment, but was unsurprised to find that she had not succeeded in wrangling her younger cousins, or convincing Emma she was not above a child's play. He told Hank of the incident with the twins and the socks, and cleverly avoided any conversation with Erik as the main topic. Clearly Hank had gotten the hint earlier that Erik was not a subject Charles wanted to discuss, especially at length, and after a few small attempts decided to drop the point altogether. They talked like this for some time; before either could realize, the sun had begun its descent, and Edie was sent to inform them that dinner was running late and would be delayed past sundown. They talked until the glowing orb had sunk, drinking sparsely so as not to spoil their dinner. After awhile they stood, leisurely pacing along the terrace as their discussion continued. It was then that Raven burst into the room, running straight for Hank in glee at the sight of her dearly missed brother. But not before depositing a letter and envelope clumsily in Charles's hands.   
  "Hank!" She yelled in delight as they hugged and Hank lifted his sister off the ground in a spin. Charles looked down at the note. The envelope was clearly torn open, no doubt by its deliverer. He set it on the table nearby and unfolded the piece of paper that was intended to be contained inside.   
  "Raven! It's so good to see you dear." Charles read the note once over, then twice, then a third time. His stomach plummeted, did somersaults; he felt as though he were going to be violently sick.   
  "I've missed you." Raven cried, still pulling Hank round in a circling dance. Charles's head was clouded in a fog of confusion. He felt vile, filthy, reading the words printed on the paper before him. He couldn't bring himself to acknowledge their nature, especially not after noting who signed the thing.   
  "Raven?" Charles dared to glance up at her, aghast, as he put two and two together. She ignored him and continued on in conversation with Hank.   
  "I'm so sorry to hear about the play. We'll read it aloud over dinner, yes?"   
  "Raven, did you read this?"   
  "Yes, lets."   
  Neither sibling cast a single glance in Charles's direction as he gaped at the letter in his hands. He felt disturbed to his very core. In his hands he held the most astonishing, wretched thing he had ever held. He had no idea how to respond, or what to do. He was utterly numb at the prospect of it alone. He excused himself nearly inaudibly; the two would not have acknowledged him if he had spoken up anyways. Paper clutched in hand, he wordlessly dashed up the stairs to his room, mortified and near about to faint. What had Erik done?

 


	7. Chapter 7

  Pacing had never truly been the thing to set her mind at ease, and even now as Raven traversed the small distance from her bed to her door, she did not find her nervous energy subsiding in any palpable amount. It was pure agony not to know what was going on in her brother’s mind; as a writer, as omnipotence, it was the purest of pains to simply not know.  
  And speaking of not knowing, what was that word?  
  Her ponderings were cut short by a sharp rap on the door. Turning breathlessly to face it, preparing herself for the advancement of plot (perhaps taking the shape of a reprimand) she was greeted by the small face of her cousin.  
  “Do you mind if I come in?” Emma muttered, her normally commandeering tone coming soft and ragged. It was clear she had been crying; her cheeks and under eyes were bright red and puffy, stark against her porcelain complexion. Raven did not get the chance to even nod acceptance before Emma had come fully into the room and shut the door behind her.  
  “I’ve had the most appalling evening.” She began, confidence returning to her speech as she came to stand next to Raven. She held out a forearm, showing dark red and blistering marks around and under her wrist. Without meeting Raven’s eyes she continued.  
  “The twins have been torturing me, look.”  
  It was not unlike Emma Quincy to be showing off an injury. Raven had often heard her mother speak of how Emma’s mother fought tooth and nail for any scrap of attention she could gather, even if that meant turning those same weapons on herself. It was apparent and frequently supported through her behavior that Emma was no different, though her claims did have a solid basis on account of the twin's erratic behavior.  
  In short, Raven did not think much of this accusation.  
  A sardonic utterance of “how awful” was all she could muster in reply. She did however, for her own curiosities sake, turn and look at the wounds again, and after a moment came to her own all-knowing conclusion.  
  “Chinese burns.”  
  “That’s right.” Emma replied, devoid of her usual pride and affirmation when someone deciphered what she wanted out of her disguised pleas. Before Raven could consider what this meant, as much as it aroused her suspicion, Emma suddenly sat on the bed and burst into tears.  
  “They want to go home!” She cried, easily shedding her icy facade and losing herself to the charade. “They think it’s me that’s keeping them here.”  
  Raven’s first instinct was to believe that Emma was playing her for the sympathy vote; she could count on one hand the amount of times in their childhood her cousin had approached her seeking genuine connection. Still, it upset her to see the other girl so deeply perturbed. It was becoming more and more apparent that this pain ran much deeper than the kind she normally painted on herself, and Raven was not heartless. Not in the slightest, in fact. She had always cared for her cousin, and wanted them to be close. She did not have many friends that were girls her age, and wanted to seize this opportunity to create a bond. After considering her crying cousin for a moment, she moved and sat on the bed, not daring to reach out a hand in physical comfort. She wracked her brain for a solution; what did Charles tell her was the best way to console the inconsolable?  
  Distraction. That would be her tactic.  
  “Emma.” She waited for her cousin to fall quiet before continuing. “Can I tell you something? Something really terrible?”  
  Clearly her plan was successful, because Emma instantly tried to stifle her tears and give Raven her undivided attention.  
  “Yes, please.” She said between snivels.  
  “... What’s the worst word you can possibly imagine?”

***

  Shame. Nothing but a vast sea of endless shame. Guilt, regret, remorse, disgust, fear, countless words bouncing around in Charles’s mind, all leading back down one path to factual knowledge: they know. Erik and Raven, somehow, someway, had found him out. He had no idea how they had come to their conclusion, but they had discovered him for what he was, and this was the beginning of the torture, the precursor to the storm of judgement headed his way.  
  This was how they chose to breach the subject, then. Cruelly tantalizing him with false hope and secrecy, driving him mad with teasing and threats. He supposed this was to be his lot in life now; endlessly doing favors for Erik and Raven, constantly selling himself to buy their silence. He wondered hopelessly to himself as he collapsed on his bed what kind of horrid tasks he would be asked to perform: maybe they would be kind to him and only ask that he take on their chores, or acquire them favors and money, both things Charles was adept at getting. He couldn’t help but feel that the real thing he’d just lost was respect. The two most important people in his life, the ones he loved most, (beyond Hank of course, God help him if Hank was privy to any of his perversions as well) now spectators to his greatest shame. Surely they would shun him, scorn him in private, constantly remind him of what an awful mistake he is. Even a child like Raven could see that everything Charles felt was just plain inherently wrong.  
  And Raven, _oh God Raven, she read the note!_ No more than thirteen years old and already exposed to such heinous forms of speech. Was Erik really so fucked of a man that he would render a child conscious of this manner of speaking? Knowing Erik as he knew him, the only explanation could be that he had done so unwittingly, but this was new territory for them. Erik had never voiced his opinion on the homosexual community, likely because it had never come up, but Charles knew him to be a man fierce in his anger and cruel in his wrath, and if this were such a thing to stir those emotions…  
  Charles could honestly say he feared for his safety. As much as he loved Erik, and trusted his friend, he was not blind to his aggressions and had always feared the day they would turn on him.  
  But how right would it be that he should fear such a thing, especially from someone so close as a brother? Hank would never raise a hand to him, no matter how deplorable he believed Charles to be. Though the comparison really wouldn’t be fair here; Hank wouldn’t raise a hand to anything, though Charles had seen Erik enact no less than Shakespearean vengeance on a loathsome fly. The thought of his friend, face scrunched in displeasure, swatting vigorously at the air as the two of them sat yet again having planted themselves in a field to while away the hours brought a smile to his face, followed by a comforting thought. Erik had never looked at him like the way he looked at that fly. Erik regarded Charles in the same light as Mozart and the marigolds he meticulously planted along the side of the house. He had only ever looked at him with kindness.  
  But then came his old familiar friend, doubt bubbling up uncontrollably again. Erik hadn’t looked at him at all since their return. Not in kindness, not in anything. Not long enough to share a thought or a feeling, or give Charles any idea what was going on behind his eyes. The distance now was more frustrating than ever. Had he figured Charles out at Cambridge? He was so careful not to have relations with anyone likely to be in Erik’s circle… Hell, he was careful not to have relations with anyone, always stopping things before they could go too far, out of some foolish notion of saving himself!  
  He laughed dryly and ran a hand over his face, feeling tears there. He hadn’t realized it had begun, but Charles was well aware it was more commonly anger that drove him to tears.  
  It was anger only that he felt now. Frustration with his situation; simply put, he felt hopelessly stuck, and desired nothing more than to return to the fountain and throw himself in, clothes and all.  
  The sound of a knock at his door broke him of his morbid reverie. Collecting himself, making sure his voice was devoid of any signs of distress, Charles looked to his mirror to straighten his suit and hair, before exiting the room, and entering the stage.

 


End file.
